


rage, rage against the dying of the light

by postfixrevolution



Series: rage, rage against the dying of the light [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Postwar AU, Prosthetic Limbs, Slow Burn Romance, TW: Blood, Unresolved Sexual Tension, it's not that bad until later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are war veterans in no sense and every. She clings to a surreal normalcy and wonders, wonders, <i>forgets</i>. He hides in a normal surreality and forgets, forgets, <i>wonders</i>.</p><p>  <i>[ alternatively: The story of how two people meet for the first time, for the second time. ]</i></p><p> </p><p>postwar AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed, so forgive the mistakes that probably lurk somewhere in here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy looks up at her with beautifully broken eyes.

It's late by the time a telltale clinking of keys signifies the locking up of a small, nondescript prosthetics and physical therapy office for the weekend. A small handful of stars twinkle in a cloudless sky, dwarfed by the tiniest sliver of a waning moon, which in turn was nothing to the golden streetlights of the suburban district. It's midnight, or around that time, and Hermione Granger is the only one walking home at such an hour. Her bag is clutched to her chest, arms too exhausted to let such a burden hang at her side, and she walks with her mind half on the pavement before her, and the other lost in a tired daze.

She's both a doctor and an engineer, responsible for the design and building of mechanical prostheses for her patients, as well as overseeing their rehabilitation. Her job itself is by no means physically demanding, as she only allows herself a reasonable amount of patients to handle at a time, but the additional odds and ends that come from owning her own business take a toll on Hermione. She knows that if she didn't force herself to tidy up her office before she left each night, it would doubtlessly become more and more disorganized with each day. Perhaps she should hire a custodian, but she's sure they'd only serve to mess up the system of organization she already has in action. The system is both a blessing and a curse, and as she fumbles at the lift door for her flat's key, she decides the exhaustion she's feeling might make it more of a curse.

She pushes the key clumsily into the lock and all but barricades into her parlor, slamming the door behind her as she runs and topples headfirst into her sofa. Without once taking her head out of the cushions, she begins to peel off her shoes. Heaving a sigh, Hermione flops around to face the ceiling and wonders how in the world Fred and George were able to run a business and not look utterly exhausted all the time. It's just George now. Maybe he's exhausted too, tired to the bones of the people that are gone and the people that are going, of hectic postwar laws and hectic postwar movements. Hermione was, those three years ago. She hasn't seen any of her old friends since. It's funny how the sounds of their voices left her first, then the exact colors of their eyes.

Reluctantly, Hermione hefts herself up off the cushions, throwing her shows somewhere off to the side of her parlor and stumbling blindly to her room. The window at the end of her hallway lets in what little moonlight is available that night, and the brunette relies heavily on her hands to guide her down the hallway. Upon entering her room, she flicks on the light, and, feeling a little less lethargic, resolves to properly prepare to go to sleep. It's the same motions as every other night, but Hermione finds comfort in the continuity, sighing in content as she lets the warm water of her shower fill the bath with heat and steam. Dead tired as she had been previously, the surreal simplicity of her nonmagical life is something she knows she won't relinquish easily.

By the time she has finished herself indulgently long shower, a peek at her alarm clock shows that it is not too far from 1 in the morning. Thank _god_ the office wasn't open tomorrow; it had been a busy week for Hermione and she would definitely sleep well tonight. With a small smile, Hermione leaps into her downy sheets, ruffling Crookshanks' fur as he settles in beside her and drifting off to pleasant thoughts of the extra hours she could sleep and the novels she could read tomorrow. She falls asleep quickly.

* * *

With a start, Hermione bolts up from her bed. Her sheets are crumpled haphazardly around her limbs and she is covered in a cold sweat. The last thing she remembers are crazed eyes and tortured screams, and her chest heaves as she gasps for air. There is a violent pounding at her door, faster even than her racing heart, and with a thick swallow, she stumbles out of bed. It had been a while since she's had a nightmare like this — dreams of this ilk had died down considerably, but not completely, after she left the wizarding world behind — and Hermione can't help but feel a sense of dreadful premonition form in her stomach as a result. Throwing a sweater on over her simple t-shirt and gym shorts, she shuffles down the hall to open to her front door, and nothing could have prepared the young ex-war hero for the sight that greeted her once she did.

Wild eyed and gaunt under the light of a wan moon, the man looks more pale and spectral than she remembers, more dead than alive. With his silver hair and the dizzying buzz of magic in the very air around him, he is the exact definition of everything she has left behind, but here he is on her very doorstep. His is a face she didn't know she didn't want to see, to remember, and yet, she lays her eyes on him and wonders how much she would hate herself if she looked away. His stormy grey gaze is intense, almost haunting, and Hermione puts up her mental walls in spite of herself. Of all the questions and fears and alarms racing through her head in this exact moment, they all coalesce into one word as he stares into her eyes and falls to his knees with a strangled exhalation and the hollow clattering of a dropped wand.

" _Why?_ " she whispers, quiet and terrified, and he throws his head up to her with tears in his storming eyes, every bit the shattered heretic begging mercy before his vengeful goddess. Draco Malfoy looks up at her with beautifully broken eyes and begs.

" _I don't want it,_ " chokes out, and he is holding onto his left arm, fingers of his right cutting bloody crescents into the skin around his Dark Mark. It doesn't writhe like she expects it to, but the blank eyes of the skull bore into her and make her shudder. He repeats his words over and over — to himself or to her, Hermione can't tell — fingers white and slick with his own blood. He cries as if he has no idea that he is. His free hand claws at the sticky skin of his cheeks, and he gazes at the wet fingertips in a mix of awe and fear. His breaths are so slow and controlled that they _shake_ and _shudder_ in his entire body as he tries so hard not to cry that sobbing is all he can do.

When Hermione eases onto her own knees before him, his eyes widen and he tells her in a voice so small that she feels herself shrink, too; "If you've any good in you, you'll help me."

Hermione feels her breath hitch, feels his words hit her like a freight train, and wonders when leaving the world of magic meant leaving her selflessness behind, leaving behind her courage and her mettle and her determination to always help others no matter what. He is cold, so cold, as she pries his fingers away from himself, and Hermione does her best to ignore the sticky blood marring the tips of her fingers as she tugs him up and pulls him inside. Surely she is not thinking straight — or thinking at all — as she cleans his cuts and watches him drift in and out of consciousness between small gasps of pain, but Hermione stumbles back into bed as the sun begins to rise, but not after forgetting to wash the blood off her hands. She dreams of Hogwarts for the first time in years.

* * *

She wakes up the next morning and falls off her bed before she has the opportunity to scream. Her hands are painted crimson and there are smudges of the stuff smeared on her once-pristine covers. Breathing hard, she runs through the events of the previous night and until she remembers platinum hair and harrowing cries. Hermione runs into her parlor to find Malfoy collapsed on her couch with a frown on his sleeping face and bandages wrapped around his left forearm. Part of her wants to collapse in relief, although she cannot fathom why, and the other part urges her to scream. She blinks harshly, rubbing her eyes with the unbloodied back of her hands, and when he doesn't fade away, she stumbles off to take a cold, cold shower.

By the time she returns to her parlor, he is awake and leaning with his elbows on his knees, staring at the opposite wall with empty eyes and a slight frown. The dark circles under his eyes make her wonder how fitfully he slept the last night. When he finally notices her presence, he sits up a little straighter. This time, she knows what she wants to say before she says it.

"What do you want, Malfoy, and why from me?" He stares at her long and hard before answering. Hermione prides herself in not squirming an inch beneath his gaze.

Malfoy pulls his wand out from his back pocket, and then — only then — does Hermione flinch, backpedal, and glare at him. He switches his grip to offer her the talisman peacefully atop his left palm, and his avoidance of her eyes and the tightness of his pressed lips makes her wonder if her reaction was the reason why they were so.

"I told you yesterday, Granger; don't play dumb. I know what you do for a living, and I know that _this_ ," he gestures to his bandaged forearm and the Dark Mark beneath it, "is something you can do."

She purses her lips. "And why? You have to answer that, too." He clenches his right fist, his eye twitches, and when he meets her gaze again, his eyes are far from the blank ones of earlier, or the blazing ones from last night. Hermione can't read them, but she sees clouds swirling in their irises.

"Because you can't learn to Disapparate from someone who's never left anything behind before."

Hermione blinks. It is then that she notices that he is in simple trousers and a button up shirt, both still black, but so far from the robes that she was always used to seeing him in. Her mind flashes back to third year, to him flaunting the elaborate silver ring with his family's crest on it, and she stares at his barren knuckles.

"How did you find me?" she breathes, just as he blurts, "Are you going to help me or not? Or did you leave behind your altruism when you disappeared three years ago, too?"

On one hand, he's been counting the years, but on the other, Hermione hasn't felt a spark of indignant affront like this in so long that she can almost feel her hairs standing on end, can sense the neurons firing in her head. This boy — this _man_ — always had the ability to bring out the most extreme in her. She marches over to him and holds him by the collar. Someone is shaking and she has a terrible feeling it is her.

"You know what I do for a living, Malfoy," she hisses, eyes narrowed, "and you know you have _no_ right to be saying that to me, the only person capable of helping you accomplish what you want. There is no reason for me to assist you. I can just as easily turn a blind eye on you and call _that_ the repaying of a favor over three years overdue for what you did to _me_ that one night in your manor." He visibly pales at the mention of that dreadful day, jaw muscles twitching from how tightly he is clenching his teeth. At his reaction, the brunette visibly deflates, releasing him and blinking in shock at what she has done. She frowns to herself as she backs away from him and averts her gaze.

It is Malfoy who finally breaks the silence. "There's still good in you," he mutters, almost petulantly. " _That's_ why you'll help me. Because while you're free to wonder and wonder and just as easily forget the past, all I can do is try to forget and forget, but then see this ugly _mark_ on my arm and be forced to wonder why I had to end up so bloody fucked up."

Hermione doesn't know she is crying until a drop of water drips off her chin and onto her crossed arms. She paws rapidly at her eyes, forgetting to ponder why he hadn't mocked her sentimentality in the midst of her fit of embarrassment. She blinks away the residual moistness of her eyes, and then looks at him. He is sitting on her couch with his elbows on his knees and his face turned up toward her. She is standing in the middle of her parlor with red eyes, staring back at him.

With a renewed determination, she traipses over to him and holds her right hand out. He offers his own, not without a brief look of confusion, and she shakes it.

"I'll help you," Hermione resolves. He blinks, then uses their still connected hands to pull himself up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the prequel/main storyline to _for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch_! Man, I had fun writing this, and it's basically all done, so expect updates relatively quickly. 
> 
> Come check out the sequel (it's more of an in-between story; I have a more substantial sequel planned, wink wink), [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4078666)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an intruder in her house, and she's memorized his favorite blend of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed yet again, so forgive my mistakes.

Rather than spend her entire Saturday reading novels over hot chocolate as she had planned, Hermione finds herself failing to find Malfoy as the exact same prat she knew from her years at Hogwarts. She had already pulled out folders upon folders of her old prosthetics designs by then, and, much to his chagrin, had employed him to help sort through them for what she needed. He huffs at her command, muttering silently to himself about _Hogwarts essays all over again_ , and the jolt of familiarity that runs through her has her staring at him curiously. Upon noticing her gaze on him, he scowls. 

"What?" the blond snaps testily. "I'm helping you, aren't I? And what're _you_ doing?" 

"I'm thinking of you in our second year and how you were just as petulant as you are now," she responds, not missing a beat. 

He huffs. "I'm helping you, aren't I?" he repeats, pulling out another relevant file and setting it aside. She watches him for a moment longer. 

"Set aside that file, too," Hermione eventually says, noting the papers he has reading through. With a quiet scoff and a none too subtle roll of his eyes, he sets it aside. Hermione returns to her own work: sketches and schematics and staring at Draco Malfoy's left arm. She gets little accomplished, save the mental cataloguing of how slender his fingers were and fluidly the curled around the files as he rifled through them. A comparative glance at the messy images scrawled haphazardly across her paper made her feel suddenly discouraged. She keeps her eyes glued on her sketchbook after that, writing nothing. 

A few more additions to Hermione's pile of relevant notes later, Malfoy stands up, looking thoroughly annoyed. Brown eyes flicker up to meet his. "Where's your loo?" he demands. The word petulant flits through her mind again. 

"Just down the hall, past the kitchenette on the right," she responds absently, returning to focus on her sketches. Without the noise of shifting papers, Hermione decides to do what she does best, grabbing a few folders and reading through her old notes and files. She pulls out the sketches of a somewhat recent project, a prosthetic foot for a shark attack victim who still wished to continue their career as a football coach for children. It was nowhere near as good as the real deal, with toes that couldn't function like the originals, but Hermione was able to allow control of the ankle joint so he had just enough to continue teaching. A miracle worker, the man had called her. She never felt so happy before in her life, just like how she never cried so much when she heard that he passed away from a biking accident a few months later. Lost in thought, she traces the lines and scribbles on her paper with a heavy sigh. 

There is a loud clank and a muffled swear from her kitchen, and Hermione bolts up, torn from her reverie. Papers fly to the ground in a flurry of white, and she swears mentally herself, swooping down to clean them up as quickly as possible. "Malfoy! What's going on?" she shouts as she shoves the file back together. Throwing it on the table, she dashes out of her parlor, only to almost crash directly into said blond. His left hand is a bright red and there is a mug of steaming tea in each hand. She stands there, dumbfounded. 

"Just take the damned drink," he finally snaps, shoving a mug into her hands. "I burnt my bloody hand for this, so you better enjoy it, Granger." The man pointedly avoids her gaze, dropping himself right back down before the parlor table and resuming his file sorting. A thank you lingers on her tongue, but never makes its way past her lips. Instead, she walks over to her kitchenette to find a still warm kettle resting on her stovetop, and a packet of tea bags open on her counter. She puts everything back where they belong and brings a small pack of ice back with her. Wordlessly, she places the cold package on his burnt hand, and when he looks at her curiously, she avoids his gaze in a very familiar fashion and starts sketching. 

Hermione is certain he can tell she is staring at the curves of his hands, but they both continue to work in silence. 

* * *

"You know, I ought to have you paying rent," she mutters to him as he barges into her home with his arms full of nondescript paper bags. It's been a week since he first arrived, and at every moment Hermione finds herself at home, she also finds Malfoy with her. She isn't sure where he goes when she isn't here, but the brunette has a feeling that it's nowhere other than her own flat. She never stopped diligently working on the designs for his arm, so Hermione couldn't fathom why he stuck around her. 

"You say that while drinking the tea _I_ brewed," he snorts, and Hermione glances up from her notes to see him taking groceries out of the bags. 

"You can cook?" she asks suddenly, changing the subject. He stops his unpacking immediately, shooting her a look so unimpressed that she begins to feel affronted. "It's an honest question!" 

"What do you take me for, a spoiled prat who can't live a day by himself lest he die of inefficiency?" 

"Yes." 

"Good." 

Malfoy returns to his unpacking, and she considers how much her life has changed in just a week. For one, there's an intruder in her house, and she's memorized his favorite blend of tea and played along with almost all of his self deprecating jokes and almost none of his self appreciating ones. She's seen the boy who once made her cry, sob so much more than she's ever done, and in three words to a once enemy, felt more Gryffindor than she ever felt when she was still in the house. Hermione looks back on the last seven days to find that she has no qualms with any of these changes. Draco Malfoy turned out to be as much a stranger of the wizarding world as she is, with their wands locked away and their pasts forgotten; when she looks at him now, there is only a man. 

"I've been finalising the designs," she blurts, and at that, he freezes. She can see the way his ears perk, the way his back straightens so subtly when something has his attention. There's a lot to him that's less nonchalant that he'd like to think. Hermione is impressed by self control he has in continuing his task, almost to the point of laughing. "You can come look, you know?" she adds wryly. "No need to pretend you're not curious. It's yours, anyway. Or, it will be." 

Malfoy drops the bag of produce he's holding and stumbles over. Hermione laughs outrightly at that, but the blond is too busy snatching up her paper and gazing at it to care. His grey eyes trace over the delicate graphite lines, and Hermione can see how they flicker between the drawing and his real arm. She stands up beside him, daintily takes the paper back. He collapses into her recently abandoned seat, releasing a long, breathy sigh. Setting her prized work down on the wooden tabletop, she begins putting away the groceries where he left off. 

"I hope you realize we're not done yet," she warns him. "I'll need your measurements after this, then I'll need the materials so that I can begin building it." He hums absently in acknowledgement as she continues milling about the kitchen. 

"My measuring tape is in the second drawer of by bedroom armoire, Malfoy. Get that for me while I finish up here." He leaves wordlessly, and Hermione has finished putting everything away in his absence. 

"Try not to bang it around too much," he teases, holding out his left arm and her tape. "I still need it for now." 

She allows herself a quiet snort at that, walking over to retrieve her tape. She's never seen him take the white gauze off of his arm since she put it there a week ago, but she keeps the sentiment to herself as she stretches the tape across the length of his arm. They've talked about a variety of things, but not his mark, the very reason he's here. She banishes the thought. His skin is soft, she notices instead, most certainly a testament to his upbringing. He's warm, too, something she's never given thought to until now, after she's already touched him many times before this. Draco Malfoy is still a human being, she thinks to herself, and while it's no revelation, the thought makes her fingers linger against his for a second too long. Hermione becomes acutely aware of the way he is watching her after that, and upon finishing her measurements, she takes a step back. 

"That'll be enough," she says, a little too breathily, and he responds similarly, a soft exhalation of, "Yeah." 

She rolls the measuring tape back up, eyes fixed on the numbers as they line up, and is mentally cataloguing what she thinks she'll need for this project when a realization hits her. All previous thought flies out of her mind as she whips her head up to meet his eyes. 

"Malfoy," she starts warily, brows furrowed. He seems to notice her unease subconsciously crosses his arms before him. 

"Granger." She meets his gaze carefully, narrowed brown eyes intent on reading everything they can from grey. Her eyes briefly flit down to trace the curve of his neck as he swallows. 

"You don't plan on going to a hospital for any of this, do you?" she whispers, a different kind of breathy than before. He hears the small tremble of fear in her voice, frowns, and averts his gaze like the guilty man he is. His eyes go from the corporeal form of his arm, to the sketch of the metal one meant to replace it. Hermione feels her heart stop. 

"No," he replies quietly. "I don't." 

* * *

Hermione doesn't talk to him for the next six days. It doesn't help that he's set up camp on her parlor sofa, or that a mug of warm tea always finds itself on her kitchenette table every morning before she leaves for work. In his favor, Malfoy doesn't speak to her at all, either gone or sleeping or reading through the newspaper or one of her old textbooks. He never looks her in the eye whenever they are in the same room together, but she can tell he's watching her when she's not looking. 

Sadly, he never visits her office anymore, either. That used to be a thing. He'd always bring some kind of lunch or supper with him, food she'd always wonder where he purchased, because she's never seen quite a place in this small suburb. He'd only quirk an eyebrow at her every time she asked, but he'd never respond, and they'd eat together comfortably. Looking back on it, Hermione wonders if he's been cooking for her all along. Instead, she has been eating by herself at the cafe across the street and feeling thoroughly upset at the sudden blandness of it. 

Mentally, she curses the blond prat as she sourly picks at her uneaten lunch. Of course she has the right to be upset at him! Withholding important information like that from her. Sure, she may have studied many medical courses regarding surgery or amputations in the past, but what right did he have to assume she'd readily _cut off his bloody arm_ just because she agreed to help him? She remembers soft skin, searing warmth, and moodily throws her metal fork against her ceramic plate, knocking her glass of water over in the process. It makes a terribly loud clanking sound, resulting in multiple glares from her fellow lunch-goers; alongside being moody, she finds herself terribly uncaring of the scene she has caused. Haphazardly throwing napkins over the wet mess, she blames Malfoy — that prick. 

After paying for her meal, Hermione rushes back to her office, breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself. She has a consultation with a potential patient after this, and it would do her no good to be scowling through the entirety of it. As she unlocks the front door of her office, she flashes herself a smile in the reflective glass. Not too bad, she supposes, but generously adds a few _pleasant_ words to her list of descriptors for a certain blond. Hermione sits herself at her desk after that, reaching behind her to pull out her files for consultation meetings, until she hears the telltale chiming of her door's bell. 

With a deep breath and the pasting on of a grin, Hermione turns around and holds a hand out to greet her visitor. What she doesn't expect, however, is platinum hair and amused grey eyes. She freezes. 

"What a garish grin," Malfoy quips. "I hope you don't greet all your visitors like this; it'd scare off business something terribly." 

Hermione quickly switches to a scowl. She has no trouble keeping that expression on her face. "That expression is reserved only for special arses whose names start with Draco and end with Malfoy. And this expression, too," she snarls back, narrowing her eyes acidly at him. 

"Tsk, tsk; what a rude way to address a potential patient," he bemoans, "especially one who is simply interested in a conversation over lunch." The prat holds up a brown paper bag, completely insignificant save for the fact that he's brought every meal they've shared in the same bag every day. Hermione curses her traitor of a stomach — it twists in her abdomen and reminds her of the lunch she didn't eat — and crosses her arms, scoffing. 

"I've no interest in sharing a meal with someone who thinks it's okay to just _assume_ I'd eagerly participate in _dismemberment_ just because he asked nicely!" she exclaims. A scathing look in the eye, and she lowers her voice dangerously. "There are things I can do, Malfoy, but if you're going to ask me to look you in the eye and... and _mutilate_ you, after all you've done is make me tea and cook for me..." She inadvertently remembers crazed eyes, knife points against her own skin, and when her gaze drops to his bandaged arm, she doesn't think, just reaches out across her desk and brushes her fingers across the white fabric. What ire she had previously is gone, replaced by a hollow, shaky whisper. "I can't do that do you, Draco." 

He is silent for the longest time, shocked by the raw honesty of her words almost as much as she is. They are pillars of salt in the aftermath of an end, of a searing, purging fire, and when he breathes her name, it is like he is discovering it for the first time. 

"Hermione." 

Her eyes flit up to meet his. A crack in her salt facade. He says her name again, slowly and carefully. A fracture in his facade. 

"I'm not asking you to hurt me, Hermione. I'm asking you to save me." 

Two pillars of salt crumble, and she feels his teardrops fall on the back of her hand as she wipes at her own. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a cliff where Hermione Granger finishes Draco Malfoy's last request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed, so forgive the mistakes that probably lurk somewhere. 
> 
> I always forget this, so have a disclaimer. I _wish_ I was creative enough to write something one eighth as good as Harry Potter.
> 
> And finally, **trigger warning for the third part: some blood and throwing up,** if you aren't comfortable with those.

Hermione collapses into the back of her chair, exhaling something between a moan and a sigh. She runs a few burnt fingertips through the loose hairs that had escaped their bun earlier and the brunette sighs again. Beside her, Malfoy is holding her latest magnum opus in his hands, grey eyes wider and more awe-filled than she's ever seen before. Despite her exhaustion, she manages a weak giggle. 

She lost track of how many days she had worked on this latest project, only knowing that she can't remember what her life was like before Draco Malfoy appeared and made himself a part of it. At least a good two or three months, she decides, because the late summer heat has long since gone, replaced by the chill of autumn as it turned green leaves ochre and gold in preparation for winter. Months, she muses to herself. It almost feels impossible for it to be that long when she can still remember the night he arrived with so much clarity. 

"The night you arrived, I had a nightmare for the first time in months, you know?" she states suddenly. The only indication that he hears her is that he stills in his incessant turning and stroking of the metal limb. "It was of that night, in the manor," Hermione elaborates. "She was... You know..." 

Malfoy does know, because he was there, and she doesn't finish the thought. The silence is equally endless for them both. He still doesn't return to his examining, only rubbing absent circles on the metal plates of the palm. Hermione follows the circular motion with heavy, half-lidded eyes. 

"I thought it was a warning. A premonition or something," she finally admits, and it is then that he looks at her from the corner of his eyes. 

"A good one? Or a bad one?" he asks tersely, trying and failing to seem nonchalant. She can hear the slight waver in his voice, can see how unfocused he is as he resumes his examining of every inch of the metal contraption. Hermione doesn't answer, just watches him until her eyelids droop, and then tilts her head back, closing her tired eyes. 

"You're like a child in a candy store, gazing at that silly thing I made," she eventually laughs. 

"Shut up, Granger," he murmurs, too preoccupied with thumbing every inch of the smooth metal contraption in his arm. "It's hardly silly at all." She laughs again, a fluttery, tired sound like a rainfall of dried leaves on a windy autumn day. 

"Mmm, if you want me to shut up that badly, you'd carry me to my room so that I can sleep," she jokes languidly. She waits for him to mumble another _whatever_ , not for him to gently set the arm down and not-so-gently _throw her over his shoulder_. At that, her eyes fly open and she screams into the fabric of his back as she proceeds to slam her fists into said back. 

"Malfoy, let me down this instant! I was making a joke!" 

"I don't know, Granger; you sounded rather serious to me." She can hear the smirk in his voice and literally snarls. 

"Your bony shoulder is threatening to bore a hole straight through my stomach; put me down this instant, or so help me I will attach your arm backwards and we'll see who's laughing then!" 

He laughs at that, a loud snort and a low chuckle that she can feel thrumming in his chest against her legs. She tries to slow her suddenly racing heart, a feat that becomes no less difficult when he removes her from her position slung over his shoulder and instead holds her princess style against his chest with his face much too close to hers. Wide grey eyes stare into wider brown ones and she can feel his warm breath hitch across her face. 

"Let me go, Malfoy," she commands quietly, pointedly looking away from him. "Please." 

He is staring at her, of that she is sure, and she clenches her jaw, tilting her face as far away from him as possible. She is hyperaware of his eyes on the curve of her throat as she swallows thickly, of the heat of his arms beneath her — as acutely searing as a brand. It is the most she can do to cross her arms and not tap her fingers restlessly. 

"I don't think I could," he responds, so soft that Hermione can't tell if he actually said it, or if she just wishes he did. "Not anymore." 

She sneaks a glance at him then. His eyes are averted and his mouth is pressed into a tight line; there are no words on her tongue, teasing or otherwise, to fill the spaces between her skipping heartbeats. He doesn't speak another word as he stalks down her hallway and leaves her at her bedroom doorway. If Hermione contemplates thanking him, she doesn't work up the energy to do so, and when she throws herself face first into her pillow, she doesn't hear him lean bodily against her closed door and bury his bright red face in his hands. 

It was a good premonition, she later decides, somewhere between awake and asleep. The revelation makes her skin tingle. 

* * *

It's been a while since she's cast a spell of any kind, but the words for the numbing charm tumble off her lips like dew from the tips of late summer leaves, smoothly and naturally. Upon finishing the incantation, her hands remain too long on the smooth wood of her wand, brushing fingertips on the intricately carved pattern; his pale, thin digits gingerly take hers, touch so light she has trouble believing he's not just a ghost. He loosens her grip on the wood, places the talisman down with a slow restraint that almost startles her. She thinks it could be symbolic, how he rests it next to her sharp scalpels and needles. The thought makes her shudder in premonition. 

He is composed, by the looks of it, too preoccupied with staring at her — into her. It's amazing how dark the irises of his eyes are: the churning, intense grey of the winter sky before a snowstorm. 

"Somehow, Granger, you haven't changed," he comments, scrutinizing her. Her mind is drawn away from the gravity of the situation; she remembers the sound of her first name on his tongue and swallows thickly, remembering the feel of his own on hers. "And yet, you're nothing like I remember at all." 

Before she has the chance to ask how, he slams a fist down on his left arm. Hermione visibly flinches, and he casually tells her, "I guess your numbing spell worked. I can't feel a bloody thing." 

Her heart patters violently in her chest, what temporary calm she had, now gone. She inhales deeply, tries to rein in her rabbit-like pulse, and straightens. "Of course it works," she sniffs primly. There is a small waver in her voice and she hates it. "I wasn't the brightest of our age for nothing." 

He raises an eyebrow at her — a favorite expression of his, she's noticed. "A little arrogant, are we? Now, where could that have come from?" 

Rolling her eyes at his teasing tone, it's so natural for her to repartee, "If your contagious brand of hubris turns out to be terminal, we'll see who's laughing and who's left with a numbed arm then." 

He holds his right hand up in mock surrender. "I don't think either of us would be quite happy with those results," Malfoy quips, the smallest hint of a smirk curling up at his lips. "Who would remain to drink my immaculately brewed tea?" Looking at his easy bravado makes the corners of Hermione's mouth twitch, briefly letting a small chuckle bubble past her lips. He's trying to calm her down. It only barely works — she is acutely aware of the ceiling lights reflecting off the metal surfaces of her tools — and she forces a small smile. 

Hermione picks up her wand again; Malfoy doesn't stop her this time, just watches her with those bottomless grey eyes. Resting the tip against the the curve of his elbow, she begins to shake. It's his hand again, so impossibly steady, that wraps itself around her wrist, stilling their anxious convulsions. 

"Hermione," he whispers, "It'll be fine. You're not the brightest of our age for nothing." His repetition of her previous boasts slows the nervous sprint of her pulse. "Plus, you have me." 

Her uncertain eyes lock onto his and her heart skips a beat. It's almost mundane now, this new stutter of her pulse every time he's close. She doesn't ever stop to consider the implications, or the consequences, just pushes onward in this months-long quest. The end is almost near, right there in front of her, and the only thing that scares her is that there is only a sharp drop after it. There is a cliff where Hermione Granger finishes Draco Malfoy's last request, and all she can see is uncertainty and fog. It's not a leap of faith she is ready to take, but she's hurtling toward it at full speed nonetheless. Her traitorous heart hopes strong arms and grey eyes are there to catch her at the bottom. 

"We could put you out," she offers, running fingers across the dirtied bandage around his arm. "This might not be something you'd want to be awake for." 

"If you're staying awake, I'm bloody well doing the same," he snaps, almost too quickly. 

"Of course _I_ have to be awake for this, Malfoy!" she exclaims. "This isn't some joking matter. You don't need to pretend to be strong for this!" 

"I'm not!" He stands up abruptly, chest heaving and arm hanging limply at his side. She had scoot back in fear of his outburst, and his wild eyes immediately soften as he defeatedly sits back down. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "I'm not trying to be strong, Granger. I'm just— I can't... _I'm weak._ " The way he exhales that sentiment, breathily and brokenly, reminds her of moonless nights and tear stained cheeks. 

"I'm weak and I know I said you have me, but Merlin— _god_! God, Hermione; I need you. You're the one doing all the bloody supporting here, no matter how much I pretend otherwise, so please, _please_ don't tell me to close my fucking eyes when looking at you... Looking at you is the only thing that's keeping me sane right now." 

Hermione doesn't realize she's crying until his thumb is trying desperately to wipe away her tears. "Fuck. Granger, stop crying," he mutters panickedly, almost to himself, and she feels a giggle bubble past her lips. She catches his hand in hers, wipes away her own tears. 

"There'd be no reason for me to cry if you weren't such a sap," she hiccups, laughing even more as he flushes bright red. Malfoy, blushing. She never would have imagined that when he appeared at her doorstep, nor would she imagine the hammering in her chest at the sight. 

"Nice to know you revel my utter embarrassment," he deadpans, and she finds herself smiling past drying tears. With a deep breath, she picks up her wand again. 

"I have you, yes?" she echoes, gently pressing the tip against the crook of his elbow. He meets her eyes despite his still flushed cheeks. 

"Of course you do," he murmurs. "You always did." 

* * *

As soon as she starts muttering the severing spell, there is blood everywhere, despite her added attempts at cauterization. This is no fifth year DA meeting, where they practiced cutting free of thick bonds as the smell of burning rope stained the air. It makes her feel sick, and her teeth biting down hard on her tongue is the only thing that keeps her teeth from chattering. 

Hermione feels bile rise up in her throat, feels an unmistakable metallic tang in her own mouth. He wraps a hand around her shaking wrist, steadying her as she traces her wand across his arm. When her eyes flicker up to meet his, she might have heard him say _don't look away_ ; his hand around her wrist squeezes harder, and she can feel him guiding her wandpoint more than she is. She watches him as she keeps muttering incantations under her breath. The smell of blood and burnt flesh permeate the air, and while it isn't hard to not scream, she's still choked up and struggling for breath. It's harder to breathe than anything else, especially when the stench of blood itches the tip of her nose, a sick temptress that urges her to inhale, to take in the poisonous air around her. 

She can already feel her hand tingling from lack of circulation, yet it is the white fingers clamped around her wrist that keep her grounded and focused on the task at hand; his skin is painful and searing against her own, but it is the only way she knows any of this is real. Hermione can't look down, not at the red hot tip of her wand, not at the bloody work she's done on his arm, only blinks fat tears out of her blurry vision and keeps muttering her spell under her breath, trusting him to guide her hand when she can't do it herself. 

The grip on her wand feels warm and slick, and she refuses to look down to see if it is blood or sweat that mars her skin. The words of her incantation drown out the pounding in her ears, the numbing tingle in her hand, and she shuts her eyes. The last thing she sees is determined grey ones on her, and is sure the apology that flutters in and out of her mind is from her to him, not him to her. A sudden release of pressure on her wrist has her eyes flying open. The spell on her lips dies immediately at the sight of his bloody stump of an arm; she remembers an orange haired boy with a lopsided smile and blood coating the side of his face and _runs_. Her wand is a forgotten clatter against the tile floor as she slams open her bathroom door and collapses before her toilet with a throat tearing retch. 

Hermione heaves bodily, grips the porcelain edges of the bowl until her knuckles are the same shade, and she sobs. Her lungs cry for air as her sporadic hyperventilation causes her chest to convulse painfully, but her weeping does not stop; the salt of her tears mixes with the acidic residue in her mouth in a way that makes her feel _sick_. 

She can't hear him in the kitchen, doesn't want to picture him, but sees blotches of scarlet over porcelain skin in the too-many moments between blinks. Heaving into the bowl once more, she feels even sicker and even worse about herself, and all her incoherent mind can tell her is his name, over and over again. 

Draco, Draco, Draco, _Draco_. 

She paws desperately at her tear stained face, trying to wipe away the sticky lines that cut down her cheeks, only to feel something stickier smear across her skin. She sees her red handprints imprinted on porcelain and stares at her scarlet painted hands, shaking. She doesn't wail, just presses herself into the corner between her wall and the toilet and wails. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She peeks at him past thin fingers and a curtain of hair, a brilliant grin lighting up the tears on her cheeks like diamonds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These sections are so terribly disproportionate, but they just tumbled out of my head that way... I'm admittedly a bit sad, but what can we do?
> 
> Unbeta-ed, so forgive the mistakes that like to lurk here and there.

Hermione wakes up on her bed with clean clothes and clean hands. The air in her flat smells as unassuming as ever, the faint smell of peppermint tea lingering as if Draco had just brewed himself a pot. She almost starts when she finds said man sleeping silently beside her, chin to his chest as he leans back against her headboard. She has half a mind to wake him up and thank him for cleaning her up and bringing her back to her room, but the sight of him sleeping so soundly stops her. 

Blinking the bleariness of sleep from her eyes, she sits up carefully, as to not wake the man beside her. As she leans herself against the wooden headboard, she gazes at him, committing to memory his profile against the sliver of moonlight that filters in from a crack in her curtains. Hermione can't say the luminescence haloes him, but what faint lunar glow there is sets his pale hair alight in something almost as ethereal as a halo. He looks like serenity, and she smiles softly to herself as the thought causes a yawn to pour past her lips. Ever so quietly, she takes her previously used sheets and throws them over his form before allowing herself to drift back to sleep. 

Her eyes fly open when she feels fabric draped over her shoulders. Draco shifts to face her, to look at her curiously through sleep-blurred eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, only to have her place a silencing finger against his lips. Dark eyes blink at her, reflecting the little moonlight that peeks through her curtains, but he does not speak. He stares at her for so long that she begins to wonder if the sun will start rising before he stops. Without warning, he scoots closer to her, leg pressing against her own in a sudden rush of warmth. The feeling of his cotton pants against her skin sends tingles that make her ponder how much more friction she'd feel if his bare skin met her own. Too much more, she thinks, cursing the small hitch in her breath at the thought. He leans bodily against her, and she can feel the thick gauze that wraps his stump of an arm. Her stomach twists in all the wrong ways as she tries to blink away images of red. 

“Go to sleep,” comes his absent mumble, as if he could sense her current tension. He looks at her with stern eyes, half-lidded and bleary as they are. With his body so close to hers, she could smell the scent of his favourite peppermint tea, alongside the faint undertone of pine that always lingered alongside him, and the laundry detergent that she always kept in stock. She turns to look at him and forces herself to copy his slow, deep breaths. His soothingly familiar aroma makes it a bit easier. 

Just as he closes his eyes once more, ready to return to sleep, she finds herself, in a sudden surge of curiosity, brushing her fingers lightly across the gauze wrappings. 

“Does it hurt?” she whispers as she follows the overlapping lines of his messy wrapping job. 

His eyes fly open, only small tatters of their previous fatigue left in them as he regards her silently. Her sights are fixed on the white crisscross of his bandages. “Not really,” he responds noncommittally. “Nothing worth complaining about.” 

She tilts her face up, brown eyes searching his own. Her hands trail from his arm to his face, and she angles herself so she can hold both sides of his head in her hands. Hermione traces the dark circles under his eyes with the pads of her thumbs; his chest expands as he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. 

“You're lying,” she states, neither a question nor an argument. A fact, maybe, and his only response is a barely-there huff; it is promptly ignored. ”I can tell,” she continues. “You didn't sleep well.” 

He takes her hands, bringing them down to her lap, and leans forward. Hermione cannot hold back her gasp as he rests his forehead against her shoulder, hands still tightly wrapped around her own. His thumbs rub circles on the back of her hands. She feels her stomach leap somewhere too high for her to catch it, her pulse subsequently following it. 

“I'll _be_ fine, then,” he amends, hot breath diffusing past the thin fabric of her shirt. “Just let me stay like this for a moment longer.” 

“And how long is a moment longer?” she asks, breathier than she might have hoped for. It passes well enough for a whisper, a sigh, Hermione decides. He sounds too sleepy to have noticed properly. 

“I'm fine,” Draco reassures her. “Just get some rest. I'm almost done, really.” 

Hermione hums her acquiesce, sitting still as he leans on her. By the time she becomes aware of his slow, quiet breaths, she realizes that he has long since fallen asleep. With an amused cluck of her tongue, she wriggles and shifts carefully until her back is once again resting against the headboard. His head is on her shoulder, a solid, comforting weight, and she follows him soon enough, drifting off to dreams of a grey eyed rabbit and leaps of faith down a rabbit hole after him. 

* * *

It's the second time she's felt so dead tired in the same amount of weeks, and the reason still remains the same. He is sitting across from her, bending and unbending the fingers of his new left hand. She leans on her arms atop her work table, watching him with a small smile. 

“Child in a candy store,” she murmurs again, a soft laugh accompanying the thought. Maybe it's because he never had a real chance at childhood that he's so childish now. 

“I'll let it slide this time because you're a miracle worker,” he retorts distractedly, transfixed by the fluidity of his new metal fingers. She watches him with both amusement and pride, silently revelling in how the slender digits look no less beautiful than his original ones. With a yawn, Hermione sits up, stretching languidly. His eyes briefly flicker to her form, but are quickly directed back toward his arm as if they never left. Primly, she takes his arm and pulls it toward her, flashing him a saccharine smile at his initial affront. He doesn't argue any further as she examines her work. 

Hermione traces her fingers along the surface of his arm, carefully thumbing the plate that covers the seam where his flesh ends and metal begins. That part is still warm, heated by the proximity to his skin. She trails her touch up this hand, staring at the way her own small fingers barely reach the highest joint of his own. He observes her and wonders how warm her own skin is when his is a cold, cold metal. 

“It really is amazing,” she breathes. He watches her as she gazes at her handiwork, almost entranced by the intricacies and detail in every divot and bend of his hand. Her ochre eyes are bright with awe and her delicate lips are set in a small smile as she lines their palms up. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, just as softly. He turns his hand to the side, curls his fingers around her own. Her eyes widen as they fly from his hand to his eyes, and without breaking his stare, he brings her fingers to his lips in a tender kiss. “Amazing, indeed.” 

He watches with a sly grin as her cheeks flush a bright red. She tugs her fingers out of his and buries her face in her hands. Thick brown hair conceals her face and he resists the urge to laugh. 

“ _Goodness_ , Draco,” she bemoans, “You've probably made me cry more than anyone I've ever known!” She peeks at him past thin fingers and a curtain of hair, a brilliant grin lighting up the tears on her cheeks like diamonds. He pulls her out of her shelter, wipes away her tears with the pads of both thumbs. She doesn't shiver at the feeling of cool metal against her skin. 

“Tears of joy, I'd imagine,” he quips smugly, and she clucks her tongue softly. 

“No, tears of pain from your horribly enacted attempts at sentimentality,” she retorts with a grin. He scoffs, tucking her unruly hair behind her ears and leaning his forehead against hers. 

“Mhm, well; seems you're stuck with these horribly enacted attempts at sentimentality, then. Irrevocably, in fact.” 

She laughs softly. “I don't think I could live any other way,” she admits, staring up at his endless grey eyes. “Not anymore.” 

* * *

The first snow of winter covers the ground when she wakes up the next day. She opens her curtains to find it sitting neatly on her windowsill, matching the white frost that decorates her window. A deep breath tells Hermione that a fresh pot of tea is already brewed, waiting in the kitchen for her. A smile pulls up at her lip as she gets takes a much needed shower, and she hums a happy, nondescript tune all the while. 

With her slightly damp hair slung over her shoulder, she walks out of the bathroom to her kitchenette, fully expecting to be greeted with the sight of two cups of tea and Draco with his newspaper. Instead, Hermione finds one cup of tea, the steam long since dissipated. Frowning, she picks up the drink, cringing to find the ceramic cool against her skin, and somewhere between the cold mug and empty kitchenette, she feels her stomach churn. Haphazardly leaving the mug on her table, she stumbles to her parlour. 

It's clean, almost immaculately so. It's also empty. Head spinning, she collapses into the sofa; the floral scent of her preferred air freshener explodes around her, and she coughs a little. That prat even removed _that_ small trace of his presence, she huffs between sneezes. And he did a terrible job of it. She can't even open a window because of the snow outside. Moodily, she stands up, traipsing to the kitchenette to reheat her sad mug of tea. At least Draco had the decency to allow her that, she thinks bitterly. The thought makes her eyes water, and she blinks rapidly. Jaw clenched firmly, she puffs out a strangled breath and takes a moody sip of her tea. The taste of peppermint floods her mouth and she chokes, spluttering tea across her counter. With a muttered curse, she throws her mug into the sink, wincing when the creamy ceramic splits against the steel surface. 

A loudly frustrated growl escapes her throat and she runs a hand through her bangs. Draco would do that all the time, too; whenever he was irritated, he would thread slender fingers through his pale hair. It was all fine and dandy with her until she suddenly found herself with the urge to replace his fingers with her own every time he did it. Cursing Draco Malfoy's name and every one of his pointless idiosyncrasies that she had memorized — like how he always held things as far from his body as possible when brewing tea, always scared of repeating his burning episode from the first day he brewed her a cup — Hermione heaves a shaky sigh. At least she isn't crying, she thinks bitterly, eyelids trying to flutter away the burning in her eyes. She rubs her palms against her eyes, rueful musings cut off by a sudden, clipped knocking at her door. With a start, Hermione rapidly blinks away her previous turmoil with a deep breath. She puts on a smile and walks down her hall wanting nothing more than to scowl. 

She opens the door to a, “Another garish grin, Hermione? Really, we ought to talk about your people skills,” and promptly shuts the door. 

“Or your lack thereof,” Draco grumbles none too quietly through the door. She's spared between choosing to open the door and clobber him or open the door and throw her arms around him when he knocks again. It's softer this time, just enough to pierce her through the chest. Through the wooden barrier dividing them, his voice is muffled at best, and Hermione briefly wonders if she can put her hand against the surface and feel his words reverberate across her skin. Her arms remain crossed as she contemplates opening the door. 

“Open the door?” he asks, a strange lilt to his voice. He is quiet — a whispery smallness that she knows well — but there is something else in his voice. A small shake, a tiny waver that colours the timbre of his tone. She's not used to the sound of it from Draco Malfoy's lips, but with a tentative hand held against her door, she imagines a dull vibration and a familiar rising and falling of a too familiar voice. “Please?” he adds softly, and she realises to herself: vulnerability. 

The door is opened faster than she can even consider how cloudy the grey eyes that accompany such a voice can be, and Draco stands with his palm still pressed against the phantom presence of a door and his grey eyes looking at a nowhere, somewhere faraway. When his eyes refocus on Hermione, they are as clear as the relief with which he breathes her name. She swallows down the heartbeat in her throat at the sound, absently licking the faint taste of peppermint off the back of her teeth. His step forward is matched by her step back, and he has the gall to look hurt. The stab of guilt in her chest is smoothed over by a brief reminder of walking into her parlour and choking on nothing and air freshener. 

“Come to say goodbye?” she snaps, a mite too bitterly. She can't stop the soft wince that escapes her mouth immediately after; he winces, too, grey eyes flitting away from her and glueing themselves to the floor. She tacks on a mental apology and hopes he can feel it. When his gaze creeps up to meet hers again, she wonders if he had. 

“I'm actually here to greet a new neighbour,” he replies, a small smirk curling up at his lips. “And perhaps solicit her assistance in helping me to unpack.” He steps out of the doorway enough for Hermione to peek out and see the next door flat with the front ajar and swamped with boxes. Her heart feels torn between stopping cold and making a hysterical dash toward the hills. 

“Your flair for the dramatic is going to give me a heart attack one day,” she laughs ruefully; his smile is sheepish, at best, as he exhales a quick laugh beside her. 

“So, that's a yes, then?” he continues. 

“Well, since I have absolutely amazing people skills, I hardly think I could decline, could I?” A sly grin from her, a none too subtle snort from him. 

“Yes, because your people skills are the reason you find yourself unable to say no to me,” he teases. 

“Oh, I'm sorry; I think I hear my latest mystery novel calling to me through this wretched jungle of arrogance,” she exclaims, eyes wide and fingers covering her lips in mock surprise. “It seems I must be going, oh dreadful neighbour of mine,” she laments, barely holding back a grin as she shakes her head. 

With a roll of his grey eyes, he grabs the brunette by the elbow and drags her over to his front door, said woman laughing all the while. She's still giggling softly as she picks up a cardboard box, and he has the decency not to snap at her as he follows suit. The inside of his flat is a carbon copy of her own, only significantly barer. Hermione contemplates how long it might take her to memorize every detail of his home once it is furnished. Not long at all, she tells herself, already thinking of the faint smell of peppermint tea and the dark shade of cherry wood that always caught his eye when he would take her out cafe searching. Emerald green accents and floor length mirrors; it was almost too easy to imagine what Draco might deem to have in his flat. Peeking though the folds of the box she holds, she sees books neatly lined up, side by side, with little to no space in between. 

“What kind of books do you read?” she finds herself asking, only ever seeing him read the newspaper and her textbooks. A small smirk tugs at his lips as he sets his own box down, walking over to her. His slim fingers press against the cardboard flaps, effectively cutting off her view of the books. The bright metal of his arm glints at the sunlight filtering in from the windows. 

“I’ll make sure there’s plenty of time for you to pore over each and every one of these books after we do some unpacking,” he promises, grey eyes sparkling. She smiles impishly at his response. 

“Why, Draco; inviting me back before I’ve even left?” she teases. His smirk eases into a soft smile as he gazes at her, long enough that she can feel her cheeks start to flush and her pulse start to pick up at his close scrutiny. Hermione stares wordlessly back, at his grey, grey eyes, and subconsciously flicking her gaze toward his defined cheekbones, his pale mouth. In the brief second that her eyes were too busy tracing his lips to see his eyes, he leans forward, planting a chaste kiss against her lips. She can’t stop the gasp that catches in her throat, nor can he help the small chuckle at her shocked reaction. 

Draco Malfoy smoothly takes the box of tomes out of her hands and moves to place it on the growing stack behind him. “If I were honest, I would say I’d like it if you _didn’t_ leave,” he replies quietly, back to her. The wide grin that finds its way onto her face is undeniable, and she brushes careful fingers against her still tingling lips; a twinkling laugh flutters past her lips, light as snowflakes during winter’s first snow. 

“If _I_ were honest,” she begins in the same, quiet tone, “I would say I don’t plan on.” 

Before he can turn around to meet her soft gaze, she is already turning back to grab another box from outside his flat. As she hefts the heavy parcel into her arms, she sighs happily. 

“Don’t just stand there looking dumbstruck, new neighbour,” she quips, biting back a smirk as she struts past the man so intent on simply staring at her. He looks a lot in awe and, perhaps, a little in love. Hermione wonders if she looks the same. 

“Come on now,” she urges, placing the box down on the slowly growing stack. Her fingers lightly brush against the back of his hands; one warm and soft, the other cool and smooth. She twines her fingers tightly around both and drags Draco outside. “There’s still a lot of unpacking to do, after all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who followed me in the writing of this! I enjoyed it immensely and hope that it won't be my last contribution to this fandom or this pairing.


End file.
